


A Father's Love

by dark_def (dedicatedfollower467)



Series: Smells Like Belonging [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dad Crocker is the Best Dad, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Underage, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Other, POV Second Person, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Parent-Child Relationship, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedicatedfollower467/pseuds/dark_def
Summary: Jane feels a bit clingy, and spends a quiet evening with her father. What she doesn't know is that she's about to present.Luckily, her pack is there to help.
Relationships: Dad Crocker & Jane Crocker
Series: Smells Like Belonging [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592716
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	A Father's Love

**Author's Note:**

> yay, it’s time for another installment of this au! this time featuring wholesome family relationships, good-natured teasing, cuddles, and self-exploratory masturbation, because apparently i can’t write a G-rated fic.
> 
> fair warning? the masturbation is about a ten-year-old girl. because that’s how old jane is in this fic. she’s ten. it’s fine. i’m trying not to think too hard about it.
> 
> (friendly reminder that omega biology is not like regular human biology, and this goes for omega females as well as males! omega females have an “internal clit” which can be stimulated easily from the inside of the vagina. you’re not going to find this particular spot if you’re trying to have sex with a real-world person with a vagina, i made it up so it makes more sense for omegas to have vaginal orgasms from being knotted.)
> 
> this is a short one-shot, but rest assured that act two will also have the other alpha kids! (and boy, is it irritating that homestucks differentiate the sessions with the words "alpha" and "beta" it makes things very inconvenient for this au)
> 
> anyways, enjoy!

Dad almost always watches TV in the living room after dinner. Usually, it’s Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, although sometimes he’ll put on recordings of Poppop’s old standup routines or reruns of _Night Court_.

You never really know how to read his mood when he’s watching Poppop’s old stuff, because his scent always goes sort of happy and sort of sad, but he doesn’t make any expressions you know how to interpret. You wonder if he watches this stuff when he misses Poppop, or if watching this stuff _makes_ him miss Poppop, or a little bit of both.

You don’t really watch shows with your dad, because you spend as little time as humanly possible in the living room.

Because it’s weird, okay? It’s weird, having to sit in the living room and go about your day with a dead taxidermied man standing in front of the fireplace like some kind of bizarre guardian of the hearth! You love your Poppop lots, you really do, but you don’t like his dead glass eyes _staring at you_ while you’re trying to focus on the TV screen. That’s _weird_. Even Dirk thinks so, and Dirk is pretty much the weirdest person you know, although Roxy sometimes gives him a run for his money.

But tonight, when dinner is over, instead of absconding up to your room as quickly as possible to try to talk to Dirk or Roxy while they’re still awake (they’re always still awake no matter how late dinner goes, neither of their guardians ever apparently makes them go to sleep, which strikes you as very irresponsible) or to Jake before it’s your bedtime, you follow Dad into the living room and curl up on the couch next to him, tucking your feet under your butt like a little girl.

Dad smiles at you and puts his arm around your shoulders, hugging you in tightly to his side. You breathe in the familiar Alpha scent of him, like crushed tobacco leaves and shaving cream and old wet felt, and sigh deeply. When you tilt your face up towards his, he rubs his cheek against yours, scent-marking you.

Having Dad scent-mark you always feels nice, but today for some reason it feels _really_ good, and you start purring reflexively. You push your face into the crook of your dad’s elbow, feeling weirdly clingy and slightly embarrassed by your purring.

“Everything all right, Jane?” Dad asks, rubbing his hand soothingly up and down your arm, scent-marking you some more with his wrist glands.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words muffled against the fabric of his shirt. He sighs.

“All right, punkin,” he says, “Remember I’m always here for you if you need me.”

You nod against his arm and your purring gets louder. Dad chuckles, rubs your shoulder a bit more, and grabs the remote to turn on the TV. He flips through the channels until he gets to Jeopardy. He has to actually turn the volume up to hear Alex Trebek, because you’re purring too loudly.

The two of you sit there for a couple hours, until Jeopardy turns to Wheel of Fortune and then becomes whatever comes on after Wheel of Fortune, you don’t know, you’re not really paying attention, too wrapped up in the nice feeling of cuddling with your dad. When that show ends, Dad turns off the TV. “I think you’re about ready for bedtime, sweetie,” he says.

You reluctantly get up off the couch and go get ready for bed, brushing your teeth and putting on your pajamas while Dad goes out to the backyard to smoke his pipe. On a normal day, you put yourself to bed, and Dad comes in and tucks you in and kisses your forehead after he’s finished his pipe.

But today, when you get into bed, it doesn’t feel quite right. You bunch up your pillows and blankets, try a couple different angles, but nothing really feels comfortable. You feel chilly and exposed, like there’s too much cool night air brushing your skin, even through your comforter.

You head back downstairs and stick your head out the utility room door. “Hey, Dad?” you say.

He turns and frowns down at you. “What’s wrong, hon?”

“Do we have any extra blankets and pillows?” you ask. “I feel kinda cold tonight.”

Dad glances at you sharply, and you startle backwards, because it’s a weird gesture for him to make. He tamps out his pipe, grips your shoulder with one hand, and leans in to sniff you deeply.

Suddenly you feel incredibly nervous. “Dad?” you say, feeling about two feet tall.

Dad kneels down in front of you, both hands cupping your shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweet pea, I didn’t mean to scare you, but I think you might be about to go into heat.”

Everything about the whole evening suddenly makes a _lot_ more sense, but you flush with embarrassment anyway. “Oh,” you say, feeling very silly for not having noticed the symptoms yourself. In your defense, ten years old is like, _super_ early to be presenting. None of your friends have presented yet.

Dad seems to read your mind, and smiles. “Early presentations run in the family. Let’s get you those extra blankets,” he says, taking your hand. You trail along after him, probably looking like a concussed three-year-old, and you’d absolutely _die_ if any of your friends saw you doing this, but holding hands with your Dad feels really nice because he’s your pack and you’re in pre-heat, so you don’t complain at all.

Dad grabs a bunch of extra blankets and walks with you back to your room, helping you arrange things into a big soft pile that feels _safe_ , warm and right. He also scent-marks a lot of them with his wrists as he does it, so when you’re finished, the nest smells as much like _him_ as it does like you.

He sits on your bed as you snuggle into the little pile. “Do you want me to stay here tonight?” he asks, “Or do you think you’ll be okay until tomorrow?”

He’s being very serious, and it’s a serious question, because you’re going through _your first heat_ , so you think about it seriously. After a minute you say, “I think I’m all right for now?”

Dad nods. “You come let me know if anything changes, okay?”

You fall asleep within minutes of him leaving the room, feeling warm and safe and loved, with the comforting smell of your dad all around you.

You wake up the next morning sweaty, with your pelvis aching, and dampness pooling in your crotch, which feels _gross_. Everything is too damn hot, and half of you wants to throw off all your blankets. The other half finds the thought of doing that absolutely terrifying, so you whine and bury your face into your pillow and deal with the uncomfortable sweatiness.

“Jane, honey?” Dad says, slowly pushing open the door of the bedroom. “I brought you a little breakfast. How are you feeling?”

An anxious thrum that was singing through every nerve of your body without your even noticing it instantly disappears as Dad enters the room, bearing a tray laden with several bottles of water and a few slices of buttered toast. He sets the tray down on the bookcase by the door and sort of hovers awkwardly at the end of your bed until you motion for him to sit down, officially inviting him into your nest. Why on earth you’d ever _not_ invite your Dad into your nest is beyond you, but you appreciate him respecting your boundaries, even if those boundaries don’t actually exist.

Dad smooths your hair out of your face as you sit up. “I’m _sticky_ ,” you complain, leaning into the touch nevertheless. “It’s too hot.”

“Do you think you could eat some breakfast?” Dad says.

You shrug. “I guess.”

He hands you the plate of toast and rubs your knee through your blankets as you sit there and eat it, although you can’t finish all of the second slice, your stomach feeling completely full up. Then he insists that you drink some water for him, and you didn’t realize how _thirsty_ you were until you’re gulping it down.

“Dehydration is the number one concern for Omegas in heat, because you’re losing so much water in your slick,” Dad says. “Make sure you drink lots of fluids over the next couple of days, okay? I’ll be here to remind you, too, of course, and if you’d like tea or juice instead of water, I can bring that instead.”

“Water’s fine, Dad,” you say, a little grumpily. You already _know_ all this stuff about heat, you’ve had sex ed classes, gosh.

“You’re not feeling dizzy or faint at all, are you?” Dad says. “No headache?”

“ _No_ , Dad, I feel _fine_.”

“It’s the number one symptom of dehydration and disordered heat in young Omegas,” Dad says, once again telling you things that you already know. “You let me know right away if you ever do feel dizzy, right?”

“Dad, seriously, stop _fussing_.” You roll your eyes. “You’d think _you_ were the one going through your first heat.”

Dad chuckles ruefully, and pulls you in to his side, where you snuggle into him instinctively, rubbing your face into his armpit, inhaling the safe smell of tobacco leaves. “I’m sorry, sweetie, it’s just that my little girl’s growing up so fast,” Dad says, sounding choked up.

You look up. “Dad, are you _crying_?”

He wipes a tear away with his free hand, which means yes, he was crying. “No,” he says, lying through his teeth.

You sigh in response and wrap both arms around his middle. It’s not like _you_ were expecting this either, especially not so soon. You might be tempted to cry a little bit, too, if you didn’t have your dad here as a warm, solid presence, your pack leader here to keep you safe from any danger.

The two of you sit like that for a while, Dad alternating between petting your hair and rubbing your back in gentle, regular circles. You talk about nothing in particular; he asks how your internet friends have been doing, about school, whether you’ve read any good books lately. It’s lazy. It’s comfortable. It’s relaxing.

But there’s a growing urgency in the space between your legs that’s making you start to squirm.

“Um, Dad?” you ask, your face starting to flush. “Could you, uh… could you…” You don’t know how to ask him to give you a little private time without saying something _incredibly_ embarrassing.

He looks down at your face and laughs. You flush even more brightly, face as red as a cherry and as warm as a campfire.

“I’ll go make us some lunch, huh?” he says, amusement still in his voice. “You just holler if you need me. Have fun.”

You let go of him, bury your face in your hands. “Oh my _god_ , Dad.” He just laughs again, rubs his cheek against your head to scent-mark you, and then heads out of the room, leaving the water bottles on the floor beside you but taking the tray and your empty breakfast plate with him.

When the door clicks shut, you kind of glance around the room for a minute, and then, very hesitantly, start to stick your hand down your pants. At first, you feel kind of nervous and weird, like someone might be watching you, but the smell of your pack - warm, safe, protective - is all around you. You bite your lip, close your eyes, and just kinda… move your fingers around.

Your panties are _completely_ soaked, like you wet yourself, which is really, _really_ gross, and the crotch of your pajama pants is similarly damp. You make a face, and then quickly shuck them off under the covers, kicking them to the bottom of the bed and deciding you’ll deal with all that stuff _after_ your heat is over.

Then, very unsure of yourself, you run your hand over the folds of your labia.

The tips of your fingers glide through the slick there, and a small jolt of pleasure races up your spine. “ _Oh_ ,” you breathe, like it was punched out of you, and repeat the motion. For a little bit you just run your hand up and down, feeling excited anticipation mount within you. You’re hardly even touching yourself, but each brush seems to drive you a little bit higher.

When you can’t stand this teasing anymore, you _have_ to have more, you spread your legs and move your other hand down there to part the soft flesh of your lips, pull back the hood of your clitoris, almost curiously. With the tip of one finger you just barely ghost over the glans of your clit, as little pressure as you’d been using on your folds. The feeling is still so intense you have to bite back a scream, end up grunting through your nose and taking deep breaths. It’s not a _bad_ sensation, not by any means, but it’s just too much right now.

So instead you slide the hood back down and rub gently through the top of it. Oh, that’s _much_ more like it, and you sigh, and begin moving your finger in small, deliberate circles around your clit. You’re careful not to put too much pressure directly on your clit, but every time you circle under your clit, you just barely brush the tip, and it feels _so_ good.

You start to alternate between those slow, steady circles and long strokes up the flesh between your vagina and your clit. You don’t _quite_ stick your fingers inside, not yet, but every time you reach down you re-wet your fingers with slick, which makes gliding around your clit even easier. You settle into a kind of steady rhythm, which builds the feeling of pleasure higher and higher in your body.

Your breath is coming more quickly now, and you feel like you're ready for more, so instead of just barely ghosting over the tip of your clit, this time, you press down a little bit more firmly.

A spark of energy, so hot you feel like it’s going to _burn_ you, runs up your clit, into your stomach, and spreads throughout your pelvis. You _clench_ all over, your fingers, your toes, your teeth, the muscles of your vagina. A fresh swell of fluid leaks out of you, and you are so _empty_ , so hungry to be filled, you slowly slide your fingers down your slick skin once more, stopping at the edge of your wanting hole.

After a moment’s hesitation, because you’ve never actually done _this_ part before, you take a deep breath, and push in.

One finger slides in with no resistance, and at first it just feels kind of… weird. Not a good weird or a bad weird, just _weird_ weird. You are just sort of very _aware_ that your finger is inside your vagina, and yet you still feel _empty_. You frown, bite your lip, and wiggle your finger a bit, pushing a little farther in and _OH FUCK hello there internal Omega clit!!!_

You gasp, throw back your head, and shudder, a ring of muscles pulsing wildly just inside the rim of your vagina, and you push harder, _harder_ on that spot, feeling every movement like a bolt of lighting through your whole body. You shake and tremble, contracting every muscle in your body and releasing it in one fluid motion, and then again, and then again. Pleasure fills you up like batter in a cake tin, slow and steady and _overwhelmingly sweet_.

Finally, when you feel like you’re about to burst, like you can’t _possibly_ take any more, you reach with your other hand and glide a finger along the tip of your external clit with firm, steady pressure.

You cry out as you orgasm this time, rubbing both of your clits in concert and practically singing as everything in you strains with your release. Spots burst behind your closed eyelids, and a floating sensation bears you away from yourself like the rush of the tide out to sea.

As you come back to reality, you find yourself panting, feel the sticky mess of what seems like a _gallon_ of slick coating your palm and the back of your hand. You take a couple of deep breaths and deliberately relax your muscles as you remove your finger from your vagina.

 _Ah, so_ that’s _why Omegas like taking knots_ , you think half-deliriously, remembering that perfect pressure inside of you. _Sex ed was not kidding around about the internal clit._

You feel warm and satiated, like you just ate a huge, delicious meal. You bask in it for a little while, sighing every few seconds as a satisfied purr starts to build up in the back of your throat. After a minute, you wipe your sticky hand on your bedsheet and roll over to grab a waterbottle from the floor, because you promised your dad you’d drink plenty of water.

Oh. Right. Dad.

For half a second, you panic, because _he’s not here, your pack’s not here, you’re not safe_. But as soon as you take that first desperate, terrified breath to start hyperventilating, the smell of tobacco leaves and shaving cream and wet felt invades your nose. The very next moment your body relaxes, goes completely pliant and lax into your blankets and pillows, because even though Dad’s not _here_ here, his scent fills the whole nest, reminding you that all you need to do is holler.

“Hey, Dad?” you call out, double checking and arranging the blankets to make sure that the lower half of your body is entirely covered. “You can come back in now, if you want.”

A few seconds later he enters the room, bearing the same tray again, this time with two bowls of mouth-watering soup. He raises his eyebrows at you with a cheeky grin, and you flush again, and you are _never_ going to stop being embarrassed about this whole process, the fact that your dad _knows_ you just masturbated, minutes ago, right in this very spot.

But as you invite him back in and he sits back down on your bed, hands you a bowl and spoon and takes the other one for himself, you couldn’t feel more content. Finding out you’re an Omega was scary, and this first heat is strange and uncomfortable and a tiny bit terrifying, with instincts you don’t fully understand and can’t control dictating your every moment.

But Dad is here for you, and he’s going to keep you safe. You’ve never been in better hands.


End file.
